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1: The Trainer
The gym always settles into a particular rhythm around late afternoon. The after-work crowd trickles in, music pulses overhead at a steady volume, and the clang of metal plates becomes part of the background noise rather than something disruptive.
The air smells faintly of rubber flooring and clean cotton from freshly washed towels. Sunlight spills through the high windows in long, angled strips that cut across the free weights, catching in the fine sheen of sweat on shoulders and arms.
Shane is already midway through his second set on the bench press when she approaches. The new trainer leans over him. She’s blonde. Toned and has perfect teeth. One hand on the bar, one hovering near Shane’s shoulder like she’s personally responsible for his triceps.
“Big chest day?” she asks lightly.
Shane smiles politely. “Yeah.”
From across the gym, Ilya freezes mid–lat pulldown.
Ilya notices her before she even speaks. He is not consciously looking for threats; he simply registers movement the way he always has, the way years of professional sports trained him to. She moves confidently, long ponytail swaying behind her, wearing the fitted black tank that marks her as staff. He remembers seeing her earlier in the week.
He doesn’t stare. He would never stare.
“Need a spot?” she asks lightly, stepping closer to the bench.
Shane pushes the bar upward with steady control and racks it before answering. His breathing is even and controlled. “I’m good, thanks.”
She smiles as if she expected that answer. "Are you sure? You’re always lifting heavy. I’ve seen you here before.”
There is something in the way she says it. Casual, but deliberate. Not just noticing weight. Not just doing her job.
Across the gym, Ilya adjusts his grip on the lat pulldown bar and tells himself he is not watching.
He watches anyway.
Shane shrugs modestly. “Used to play hockey.”
Her eyebrows lift. “College?”
“Professional.”
That changes the energy immediately. She leans a fraction closer, interest sharpening in her eyes.
“Oh, that explains it,” she says, her hand coming up almost automatically to touch Shane’s bicep as she laughs. “You’ve got that build.”
The touch is light. Professional enough that no one would question it. Still, Ilya feels something tighten in his chest.
It is not anger. It is not even true jealousy, yet.
The weight stack on his machine drops harder than intended when he releases the bar. The plates clap together with a sharp metallic crack that draws a couple of glances. Ilya exhales slowly and wipes his palms on his towel, forcing his jaw to unclench.
Shane glances over immediately. Their eyes meet.
There is a flicker of recognition in Shane’s expression, the faintest upward pull at the corner of his mouth.
He knows.
The trainer is still speaking, adjusting the bench angle slightly “just in case,” her fingers brushing Shane’s forearm as she demonstrates how she would stand if he did want a spot. Her proximity lingers half a second longer than necessary.
Ilya stands, gives him a slow smile, and starts walking over.
He does not rush. He never rushes.
He walks over with the kind of calm, controlled stride that once intimidated defensemen twice his size. The towel rests around his neck, his shoulders broad and relaxed, his expression neutral to the point of unreadability.
He stops at the head of the bench.
“I can spot him,” Ilya says smoothly.
It comes out meaner than he meant it to.
The trainer glances up, momentarily assessing him and his tone. Ilya is taller, thicker through the shoulders, and radiating a quiet, immovable presence.
“Oh,” she says, smiling again. “You two train together?”
“Yes.”
The word lands solid and uncomplicated.
Shane is trying not to grin.
The trainer steps back with a small, awkward laugh. “All right. I’ll let you get back to it. Good luck with chest day.”
She walks away.
Ilya does not watch her leave. He looks down at Shane instead.
“You needed help?” he asks mildly, positioning himself behind the bench.
Shane lies back again, hands sliding into place on the bar as he sneakily glances a look up Ilya’s loose gym shorts. “I think I was handling it.”
“I saw.”
There is something layered under the words, something measured.
Shane lifts the bar from the rack, lowering it toward his chest in a smooth, controlled descent. Ilya’s hands hover beneath the bar, close enough to intervene if necessary, though they both know Shane does not need assistance.
Halfway through the set, Shane speaks, voice steady despite the weight. “You slammed the machine.”
“It slipped.”
“It did not slip.”
Ilya says nothing.
Shane finishes the rep and racks the bar again, sitting up slowly so that they are nearly eye level. There is a faint flush on his cheeks from exertion, a loose curl of hair damp at his temple.
“You’re jealous,” Shane says quietly.
Ilya considers denying it outright. Instead, he studies Shane’s face, the familiar line of his jaw, and the way his lips curve when he is amused.
“She was touching you,” Ilya replies.
“She’s a trainer.”
“She does not need to touch you.” The words are sharp. But they are steady.
Shane’s expression softens slightly at that. He understands now. “She was flirting with me, wasn't she?”
“Yes.”
Ilya steps closer, one hand settling at Shane’s waist almost unconsciously. His thumb presses lightly into the muscle there, grounding himself in the warmth of him.
“Only I can do that.”
The admission is quiet but firm.
For a moment, the noise of the gym seems to recede. Shane’s breath catches just faintly, and he searches Ilya’s face as if weighing the sincerity there.
“You know I’m not interested,” Shane says.
“I know.”
“Then why does it bother you?”
Ilya leans down until their foreheads nearly touch, his voice lowering enough that no one else can hear.
“Because I do not like strangers looking at you like they are imagining something.”
The honesty surprises even him, and it makes him puff a laugh.
Shane’s fingers hook lightly into the waistband of Ilya’s shorts, pulling him a fraction closer. There is warmth in his eyes now, affection threaded through amusement.
“You’re ridiculous,” Shane murmurs.
“Probably.”
Ilya leans down to brush a brief kiss against his temple. It is not showy or dramatic, but it is unmistakably intentional. A statement without raising his voice. When he pulls back, Shane’s cheeks are pink in a way that has nothing to do with lifting.
“One more set,” Ilya says, hands returning to the bar.
Shane smiles up at him, something softer in his expression now.
This time, when he lowers the weight to his chest, Ilya’s hands hover even closer. Not because Shane needs help. But because no one else is touching him today.
Later, in the locker room, Ilya says casually, “Your form looked fine to me, by the way.”
Shane blinks. “What?”
“That trainer. She was very interested in your chest and your form.”
“She was doing her job, Ilya.”
“Mmm. No.”
Ilya presses him up against the locker and kisses him; it’s possessive and a little bit feral with how he bites shanes lip as he pulls away. One hand at Shane’s waist, thumb digging into the soft dip of his hip, and the other holding his jaw in a firm grip.
“Only I can spot you from now on,” Ilya murmurs. “You don’t need anyone else.”
Shane just smiles and pulls him into another kiss.
2: The College Kid
It’s leg day, which means the gym feels heavier somehow.
The squat racks are full, the air thicker, and the music turned up just enough to compete with the metallic clatter of plates sliding onto bars. There’s a faint vibration through the rubber flooring every time someone drops a deadlift too hard. The mirrors along the wall reflect bodies in motion, lunges, presses, and slow controlled descents. A choreography of strength and ego.
Shane prefers the far rack near the corner. Less traffic. Fewer people drifting too close to him and ruining his rhythm.
Shane is midway through a set of back squats when Ilya notices the kid.
Not a literal child, but close enough. Early twenties. Tank top cut too low, hair styled with careful effortlessness, the kind of confidence that comes from still believing you are the strongest person in every room.
Ilya is across the room at the platform, chalk dust clinging faintly to his fingers as he resets for another deadlift. He sees the kid glance once. Twice. Then linger.
Shane racks the bar with a controlled exhale, shoulders flushed from exertion. He steps back, rolling his neck slightly, and that’s when the kid makes his move.
“Hey, man,” the kid says, flashing an easy grin. “You compete or something?”
Shane grabs his water bottle, spraying it into his mouth in an effortless way that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. “Not anymore.”
“You look insane,” the kid continues, eyes openly scanning Shane’s frame and how his throat bobs as he swallows. “Seriously, dude. Your legs are ridiculous.”
Shane laughs softly, a little embarrassed. “Hockey.”
“No way. That tracks. You’ve got that build.”
The kid steps closer, casual but deliberate, as if proximity is something he’s entitled to.
Ilya racks his deadlift harder than necessary.
He tells himself it is nothing. People compliment each other in gyms all the time.
Still, his attention sharpens on his husband.
Shane wipes his forehead with the hem of his shirt, revealing a long strip of skin along his abdomen without thinking about it. The kid’s gaze drops. Lingers. He doesn't even try to hide the lip bite.
Ilya feels the shift in his own body before he consciously registers it. His shoulders are square. His jaw tightens. Something territorial and ancient wakes up under his ribs.
He walks over, towel around his neck, sweat-slick and towering.
The kid looks up.
Up.
Up.
Ilya stops just slightly behind Shane’s shoulder, close enough that their arms nearly brush.
“Everything okay?” Ilya asks mildly.
Shane doesn’t even try to hide his smile. “He was just asking about hockey.”
Ilya nods slowly. “Ah.”
The kid tries to recover his confidence. “Yeah, I was saying he’s built like a tank. What about you? You play too?”
“I did,” Ilya replies.
There is something in the way he says it that makes the kid straighten his back. Trying to make himself bigger unconsciously. Ilya still towers over him effortlessly.
Shane shifts his weight, and without thinking about it, Ilya’s hand settles at the small of his back. It is not aggressive. It is not even obvious to anyone who isn’t looking closely. But it is unmistakably intimate.
The kid’s eyes flick downward to where Ilya’s palm rests, long fingers slipping up underneath the tight compression shirt, then back up again.
“Oh,” he says, realization dawning.
Shane’s mouth twitches.
“You two—”
“Yes,” Ilya answers impatiently.
The kid clears his throat. “Right. Cool. That’s cool.”
Silence stretches for half a beat too long.
“Well,” the kid says quickly, stepping back, “nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“I am sure you will,” Ilya replies.
The kid retreats to another rack on the otherside of the gym.
Ilya doesn’t move his hand immediately.
Shane turns slightly within the circle of his arm. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Stake your claim like you’re marking your territory.”
Ilya’s brows lift faintly, as if this were news to him. “I did no such thing.”
Shane snorts. “Yea okay. You literally put your hand on my back the second you got here.”
“It was already there.”
“It was not.”
Ilya’s lips curve faintly. “You are imagining things, Hollander.”
Shane shakes his head, amused, but there’s warmth in his eyes. “You’re jealous.”
“I am simply observant of my husband and the people around him.”
Shane rolls his eyes and punches Ilya’s shoulder lightly. “You’re possessive.”
Ilya steps closer, as if that were even possible, before lowering his voice. “He was looking at you.”
“So?”
“So I did not like it.”
The honesty comes more easily this time.
Shane studies him for a moment, something softer replacing the teasing edge. “You know I wasn’t flirting back.”
Ilya rolls his eyes now. “I know you were not. You do not know how to flirt. Shane.”
Shane would say something about that, but he is enjoying watching Ilya flounder too much to accept the bait. “Then why does it matter?”
Ilya considers how to explain something that feels less logical and more instinctual. “Because he thought he could,” he says finally. “Because he looked at you like you were available.”
Shane’s breathing slows.
“And I prefer when people understand that you are not.”
There it is again. That steady certainty. Not anger. Not insecurity.
Simply a claim.
Shane’s fingers curl lightly around the front of Ilya’s shirt, tugging him a fraction closer. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“But I kind of like it.”
Ilya’s hand tightens slightly at Shane’s back, thumb pressing into warm muscle.
“You should not encourage me.”
“Probably,” he snorts, but he still pulls his husband down for a chaste kiss.
Ilya leans down near Shane’s ear. “You like the attention, don’t you?”
Shane tenses where he was leaning over to reset his barbells. He looks over his shoulder at his husband, and in a teasing tone, he says, “Maybe.”
Ilya’s jaw tightens.
“We are leaving early,” he says.
They do not, in fact, make it home before Ilya proves a point.
3: The Water Fountain
It happens on a lighter day.
Not heavy lifts. Not ego weight. Just accessory work and conditioning, the kind that leaves muscles warm instead of wrecked. The gym feels less aggressive tonight, more conversational. People linger between sets. The music is lower. The air smells faintly of artificial lemon from someone who went overboard with disinfectant spray.
Shane finishes a set on the cable machine and reaches automatically for his water bottle.
Empty.
He frowns at it, shakes it once, then sighs. “I’ll be back.”
Ilya nods from the bench where he’s rewrapping his wrist straps. “Do not disappear.”
“I’m getting water, not dying.”
Ilya hums noncommittally.
Shane walks toward the fountain near the stretching mats. It’s one of the newer ones with the bottle refill station, and there’s already someone there, a guy about their age, maybe a little older, wearing a gray compression shirt that fits like it was painted on.
The man glances up when Shane steps beside him.
There’s that flicker of recognition of someone who watches hockey and knows who Shane Hollander is.
“Hey,” the guy says casually. “You done with that machine?”
Shane shakes his head. “Nah, still using it.”
“Damn. You were flying through those sets.”
Shane laughs softly. “Trying to.”
The man’s gaze is steady and direct without being overtly inappropriate. It lingers long enough to be intentional.
“You train here a lot?” he asks.
“Yeah. A couple of times a week.”
“Thought so. I’d remember seeing Shane Hollander at my gym.”
That one is not subtle.
Across the gym, Ilya sees the way that the man shifts closer. The way his shoulder angles inward. The way Shane smiles politely instead of disengaging immediately.
It is harmless. He's just a fan.
Ilya feels something tighten anyway.
He tells himself he is being dramatic. Still, he stands. He does not walk over right away.
He watches.
The man leans one forearm against the fountain while Shane’s bottle fills. He’s talking about something, protein brands, maybe. Shane nods, answering briefly, unaware of the way the conversation is being steered.
Then the man smiles.
“You ever need a training partner,” he says lightly, “I’m usually here evenings.”
That’s enough.
Ilya walks over.
He reaches the fountain just as Shane’s bottle finishes filling. Without breaking eye contact with the other man, Ilya takes the bottle from Shane’s hand.
Not snatches. Takes. Like it belongs to him.
Shane blinks. “Hey—”
Ilya tips the bottle to his mouth and drinks.
Long. Slow. Unapologetic.
A thin line of water escapes at the corner of his lips. He wipes it away with his thumb, still looking at the man over the rim.
The message is loud and unmistakable.
The man’s eyes flick between them. To the bottle. To the way Ilya stands close enough that their arms brush.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
“Make a new friend?” Ilya asks while he lowers the bottle and hands it back to Shane.
“Thank you,” he says calmly.
Shane stares at him. “That’s mine.”
“Yes.”
“You have your own.”
“I prefer this one.”
The man clears his throat. “I didn’t realize you guys were—”
“Yes,” Ilya says again. There is no further elaboration.
The man nods quickly. “Cool. Cool. My bad.”
He steps away, suddenly very interested in adjusting his earbuds.
Silence settles between them once he’s gone.
Shane turns slowly toward Ilya, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “Did you just steal my water bottle to prove a point?”
“I was thirsty.”
“You were not.”
Ilya shrugs lightly. “It seemed efficient.”
Shane huffs a laugh despite himself. “You are unbelievable.”
“He was flirting.”
Shane rolls his eyes. “He asked about protein powder.”
“Mmm.” Ilya seems unconvinced.
“You’re jealous.”
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Ilya leans in, voice low. “I do not like strangers thinking they can flirt with what is mine.”
Shane’s breath catches, and his pulse jumps at the subtle shift in tone.
Shane studies him for a long moment. There is no insecurity in Ilya’s expression. No fear. Just something grounded and territorial. “What’s yours?” He asks softly.
Ilya reaches for the bottle again, this time slower. His fingers brush Shane’s deliberately before he takes it, lifting it for another drink. His other hand slides under Shane’s shirt at the waistband of his shorts.
When he lowers it, his mouth is very close to Shane’s ear. “You.”
Shane forgets entirely about protein powder.
4: The Stretching Area
This one is Shane’s fault.
It’s late enough that the gym has thinned out.
The heavy lifters are gone. The after-work rush has faded. What’s left is a softer crowd: people finishing cardio, a couple of regulars stretching on the mats, and the low hum of treadmills blending with a playlist that has shifted from aggressive bass to something steadier and rhythmic.
Shane always stretches longer than Ilya.
Ilya pretends this annoys him.
It does not. He revels in how flexible his husband is.
Tonight, Shane claims a mat near the mirrored wall. He sits first, legs extended, rolling his shoulders back before folding forward slowly over his hamstrings. The movement is controlled and practiced. Years of conditioning. His shirt rides up without him noticing, exposing the strip of skin above his waistband, the defined line of his lower back tightening as he reaches.
Ilya is a few yards away, half-heartedly doing bicep curls while watching Shane through the mirror. Trying not to be too pervy in public but enjoying the show nonetheless.
A man nearby is trying to hide that he’s looking, but he's not doing a very good job. Ilya notices.
Mid-thirties. Built. Not subtle.
The man is supposed to be stretching his calves. Instead, his gaze is fixed on the mirror directly behind Shane. It is not a quick glance either. It lingers and studies the dimples peeking above Shane’s shorts.
Shane shifts, adjusting deeper into the stretch, and the fabric of his shirt pulls higher, giving Ilya and Creepatron 5000 a better view.
The man does not even pretend to look away.
Ilya feels it before he thinks about it. A slow, steady heat that starts under his ribs and works outward. The possessiveness is overwhelming.
Shane transitions to a butterfly stretch, knees falling open, elbows pressing gently against his thighs. He tilts his head back, eyes closed for a second, breathing slowly.
The man watches the entire movement, as well as his husband's now fully exposed crotch in those sinfully tight shorts.
Ilya stops mid-rep.
He walks over with (slight) urgency and sits directly in front of Shane.
Close.
Blocking.
Shane opens his eyes when Ilya’s shadow falls across him. “What are you doing?” Shane asks, amused.
“Protecting my investment.” He scoots close until their knees are touching, and nobody else can see Shane in all of his glory.
The man across the mat area shifts uncomfortably.
Shane raises an eyebrow. “You said you weren’t stretching.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You hate stretching.” He tries to probe.
“I tolerate it.”
Shane smiles, already catching on. It's when he sees the other man stand from his place and scamper off like a dog who had been told “no” that he finally understands what was happening.
“Oh my god.”
Ilya grips Shane’s ankle and pulls him forward until their foreheads almost touch. He draws Shane’s leg forward a few inches, adjusting his position under the guise of helping deepen the stretch. Shane inhales sharply at the contact.
“You’re insane,” Shane murmurs.
“Probably.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ilya sees the man glance once more. Ilya meets his gaze directly.
He does not smile, and he doesn’t look away.
The message is wordless and absolute.
The man breaks eye contact first. He gathers his towel, suddenly very invested in relocating to the other side of the room.
Only when he’s gone does Ilya return his full attention to Shane.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Shane says, though there’s warmth threaded through his voice.
“He was staring.”
“So?”
“So I did not like it.”
Shane leans back on his hands, studying him. “You realize I was just stretching.”
“Yes,” Ilya replied, annoyed.
“And that my hamstrings are not a public invitation.”
“I am aware.”
“Then why are you acting like you had to defend my honor?”
Ilya’s grip shifts slightly higher on Shane’s calf, thumb pressing into the muscle in a slow, absent motion that is dangerously grounding.
“He was imagining,” Ilya says quietly.
Shane’s breath falters. “Imagining what?”
Ilya leans forward slightly, their breath mixing now in the cool air-conditioned air.
“You.”
The word is simple. Heavy. Enough of an explanation on its own. Shane swallows.
“You can’t control what people are thinking, Ilya.”
“I can control whether they feel encouraged enough to approach you about it, though.”
Shane thinks about that for a second and feels a tinge of sadness creep into his chest. “You think I was encouraging him?” He asks softly.
“No.” The answer is immediate. “But you were unaware.”
“And that bothers you.”
“Yes.”
The honesty hangs between them.
Shane’s expression softens into something more thoughtful. “You don’t trust me?”
Ilya’s head tilts slightly, almost offended. “I trust you completely.”
“Then what is this?”
Ilya exhales slowly, searching for words that don’t make him sound unreasonable or like the crazy possessive asshole that he and Shane both know he is, but never say out loud.
“It is not about trust,” he says finally. “It is about preference.”
“Preference.”
“Yes. I prefer when people understand that you are not available for their imagination. I prefer that nobody ever looks at you ever, actually.”
Shane huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
Ilya shrugs, “Possibly.” He shifts closer, hands sliding from Shane’s calf to his knees, gently pressing them wider under the pretense of assisting the stretch.
Shane inhales sharply again.
“You are being very dramatic for someone who claims he isn’t jealous.”
“I am not jealous.”
“You just glared a man off a mat.”
“He moved on his own.”
Shane shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re territorial.”
“Yes.”
“At least you admit that.”
Ilya’s gaze drops briefly to the strip of skin still visible at Shane’s waist. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“I do not share,” he says quietly. The words are possessive in a threatening way. Shane’s fingers curl into the fabric of Ilya’s shorts, tugging him closer until their foreheads nearly touch.
“You don’t have to,” Shane murmurs. “You know I would never want that.”
Ilya’s hand slides to Shane’s hip, firm and warm. “Good,” he replies.
They stay like that for a moment, close enough that the rest of the gym fades into background noise.
When they finally stand to leave, Ilya walks slightly behind Shane. Just close enough that no one mistakes anything.
5: The Bold One
It’s busier than usual.
Not chaotic, but crowded enough that space feels tighter, and conversations overlap. A group of college athletes occupies the turf area. Someone is filming deadlifts near the platforms. The front desk staff keeps scanning membership cards in quick succession.
Shane is at the cable machine again, finishing a set of tricep pushdowns. The overhead lighting catches the sweat along his shoulders, the definition in his arms flexing with each controlled rep. He looks focused, steady, and unaware of the attention he draws.
Ilya is across the room, loading plates onto a barbell, when he notices her.
She isn’t staff.
She doesn’t hover uncertainly the way most people do when they’re debating whether to approach someone.
She walks straight toward Shane.
Ilya’s hands pause on the plate.
Shane finishes his set and steps back just as she reaches him. She’s confident in a way that suggests she’s used to being accommodated. Long dark hair, fitted leggings, and a posture that says she expects space to open for her.
“Hi,” she says, smiling easily. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Shane blinks, polite as always. “You’re good.”
“I’ve seen you here a few times,” she continues. “You’re consistent.”
Shane laughs softly. “I try to be.”
She doesn’t waste a single second. “I was wondering if maybe you’d want to train together or grab coffee after a workout sometime.”
There’s no hesitation. No testing the waters. She holds out her phone confidently. “Could you put your number in?”
Shane freezes at the face of blatant flirting and glances toward Ilya.
Ilya would be impressed if he didn’t feel so nauseous.
Ilya is already walking over.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t scowl. He doesn’t even look angry. He simply moves with quiet certainty.
The woman notices him when he’s a few steps away. She glances over, mildly curious, then turns back to Shane.
Shane opens his mouth to respond, probably to decline politely, but Ilya reaches them first. He smoothly slides between them and stands beside Shane, wrapping a thick arm around his waist, and looks down at the phone with false curiosity.
Shane inhales sharply.
The woman’s expression flickers.
“Oh,” Ilya says pleasantly. “You must not know.”
She blinks, confused at the interruption. “Know what?”
“That he is taken.”
His tone is calm. Almost conversational, and before she can respond, Ilya turns his head and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to Shane’s temple. It is the opposite of subtle. It is a public claiming.
The woman’s confidence falters. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
“It is all right,” Ilya says, still polite. “Now you do.”
She withdraws her phone quickly, offering Shane an apologetic smile before stepping back. “My bad. Have a good workout.”
She leaves.
Silence hangs in her wake. Ilya doesn’t remove his arm immediately. Shane turns his head slowly to look at him. “You are unbelievable.”
Ilya arches a brow. “Why?”
“You did not have to do that.”
“She asked for your number.”
Shane exhales, half exasperated, half something else entirely. “I was about to say no.”
Ilya shrugs, completely unapologetic. Ilya finally shifts his arm but keeps his hand resting at Shane’s hip.
“She was bold,” he says. “I responded accordingly.”
Shane shakes his head, but there’s color creeping up his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“You’re jealous.”
“Obviously, Hollander.”
They stand like that for another second, the noise of the gym flowing around them, before Shane steps back toward the machine.
“Finish your set,” Ilya says.
“Yes, sir,” Shane replies dryly.
Ilya’s hand lingers at his waist just a second longer before letting go, and then, without warning, he crouches and picks Shane up. Throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of rice. Shane makes a loud squawking sound and grabs onto the back of Ilya’s muscle tank.
“Oh my—! Ilya put me down," Shane demands.
Ilya just laughs loudly and slaps his hand across Shane's butt cheek loudly as he walks to the locker room.
“You shouldn't have called me Sir. Now we have to go home early!” Ilya speaks way too loudly for a crowded public gym.
From his place over Ilya’s shoulder, he can see everyone watching them, but especially the woman and young man who had hit on him a few weeks ago.
“Oh god, we have to switch gyms,” Shane whines into Ilyas's back.
And One Time, Shane Hollander Got Jealous
It happens on a day that doesn’t feel significant.
There’s no tension between them when they walk in, no leftover argument, and no charged undercurrent from earlier. It’s just a normal workout day. The gym is steady but not crowded, the kind of mid-evening lull where people move with purpose but not urgency. The overhead lights cast everything in a clean brightness that makes muscle definition sharp in the mirrors. The air smells faintly of metal and citrus cleaner.
Shane is at the cable row station when he hears Ilya laugh.
It’s an easy sound. Open. The kind of laugh that he knows pulls at the corners of his eyes and softens his mouth.
Shane glances up automatically.
Across the room, a guy is sitting up on the bench press, flushed from effort, breathing hard. Ilya stands behind him, hands still hovering near the bar from the spot. The guy says something that makes Ilya smile again, and Shane feels a small, instinctive warmth at the sight of it.
It’s normal. Ilya has always been like that. Quick to help. Quick to encourage. He cannot see someone struggling without stepping in. Remnants from his captaincy.
The guy offers his hand in thanks. Ilya takes it and pulls him up smoothly. The guy lingers close after that.
That’s when something shifts.
He’s about their age, maybe a little younger. Dark hair falling into his eyes, sharp cheekbones, compact but strong. There’s a familiarity to him that Shane can’t immediately place, and then he registers it: he’s Asian too. Not Japanese, Shane thinks, maybe Korean, but close enough that the similarity lands before he can stop it.
The guy gestures toward Ilya’s arm, saying something Shane can’t hear clearly from across the room. He laughs again, and when he does, his hand comes up lightly against Ilya’s bicep as if he’s measuring the size of it with the breadth of his palm.
The touch is casual.
It lingers a second longer than necessary.
Ilya doesn’t step away.
He doesn’t lean into it either. He just stands there, relaxed, answering whatever question he’s been asked about lifting or training routes. His posture is open. Comfortable. Unbothered.
And Shane feels something twist low in his stomach.
It’s small at first, a quiet tightening he tries to ignore. He turns back to his machine and begins another set, telling himself that this is nothing. Ilya has watched people flirt with him for weeks. He has teased Ilya for being territorial. He has laughed when Ilya inserted himself into conversations that were harmless.
He does not get to feel like this.
Still, he keeps glancing over.
The guy steps closer. Their shoulders nearly brush; he's too short to really reach, though. Shorter than Shane. He’s smiling in a way that isn’t entirely neutral anymore. Curious. Interested. There’s a spark there that Shane recognizes too well.
Attraction. He is attracted to Ilya. His unreasonably gorgeous 6'3" Russian husband.
And beneath the fiery jealousy, something sharper creeps in.
He’s Asian.
The thought arrives uninvited.
The guy says something that makes Ilya grin wider, and Shane’s chest tightens.
He drops the cable handle mid-rep.
The metal snaps back against the stack with a sharp crack that cuts through the noise of the gym.
Both of them turn, surprised at the sudden commotion.
Shane is already walking before he consciously decides to.
His steps feel controlled, but there’s heat under his skin now. Not explosive anger. Not rage. Just a steady, uncomfortable awareness that he does not like what he’s seeing.
He steps directly into Ilya’s space.
Close enough that their chests brush. Close enough that the guy has to shift back slightly to accommodate him.
“You ready?” Shane asks, looking directly at the other guy instead of Ilya.
His voice is calm.
Probably too calm.
Ilya studies him carefully. “For what?”
“To leave.”
A faint crease forms between Ilya’s brows. “We just got here.”
“We’re done.” He says it flatly, making direct eye contact with the kid who is still too close to his husband.
The guy looks between them, suddenly aware that the atmosphere has changed in a way he did not anticipate.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says quickly.
“You didn’t,” Ilya replies, though his attention is still fixed on Shane.
The guy nods like he doesn't quite believe him and retreats, offering an awkward half-smile to Ilya and a wary glance at Shane before returning to his bench. He does not try to rejoin the conversation.
Silence settles in the space he vacated.
Shane crosses his arms, aware of how tight his posture feels. He stares at Ilya’s chest instead of his face.
“You didn’t move,” he says.
“From what?”
“From him. He touched you.”
Ilya glances down briefly at his own arm as if replaying it. “He did.”
“And you just stood there," Shane elaborated.
“I did not think it mattered.”
The answer lands wrong. Ilya knows this as soon as he sees the darkness cloud Shanes pretty eyes.
Shane exhales sharply. Laughing humorously. “Of course it matters.”
Ilya tilts his head slightly, studying him in that quiet, searching way that makes Shane feel like he’s being read too easily. He hates that Ilya knows him so well at times like these. When he knows he is being unreasonable.
“You are jealous,” Ilya says with fond realization.
“I am not jealous.” Shane scowls.
“You dropped the rowing handle.”
Shane’s jaw tightens. He hates how obvious he must look.
“He was looking at you,” Shane says instead. “Like he was interested.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t shut it down.”
“I did not feel the need.”
There’s no arrogance in the statement. Just calm certainty. And that, somehow, makes it worse. Shane hesitates, then the thought that’s been circling finally slips out before he can stop it.
“He’s Asian,” he says.
Ilya blinks. “Yes?” He says it like he noticed, but it didn't really register with him.
Shane shrugs, trying to sound casual and failing. “You’ve got a type, apparently.”
For a split second, confusion crosses Ilya’s face. Then realization dawns.
“Shane,” he says quietly.
“I’m just saying,” Shane continues quickly, cutting Ilya off, unable to stop now that he’s started. “He kind of looks like me. So maybe I should be concerned.” There’s a vulnerability under the sarcasm that he doesn’t like exposing.
Ilya steps closer, closing the small space that had formed between them. Leaning down until he is speaking right against Shanes ear.
“I do not have a type,” he says carefully. “I have you.”
Shane tries to suppress the shudder that rolls down his spine. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.”
Shane looks up at him finally, and there’s something raw in his expression that surprises even him.
“I didn’t like it,” he admits, finally. “The way he was looking at you. The way he was touching you. It felt like he thought he had a chance.”
Ilya’s expression softens immediately. “I did not move,” he says slowly, “because I did not feel threatened.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I know.”
His hand comes up to rest at the back of Shane’s neck, warm and steady.
“I did not notice that he looked like you,” Ilya continues. “But even if he did, that changes nothing.”
Shane swallows.
“I do not want a category,” Ilya says quietly. “I want you. Specifically. Exactly as you are.”
The words sink in slowly.
“And if someone flirts with me,” Ilya adds, “it does not register as a possibility. It registers as background noise.”
Shane’s shoulders ease a fraction.
“You could have moved,” he says, softer now.
“Yes,” Ilya agrees. “I could have.”
“And next time?”
Ilya’s thumb brushes lightly against the side of his neck, rubbing a love bite that Ilya had worked into his skin that morning.
“Next time, I will move.”
There’s no defensiveness in it. Just understanding of Shane and his feelings. Understanding that he upset his husband, he wouldn't make the same mistake twice.
Shane exhales slowly, the jealousy loosening its grip.
“You always get jealous when people hit on me,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“I thought it was ridiculous.”
“It is.”
“No its not. Now I get it.”
Ilya’s mouth curves faintly, not amused but fond.
“It is unpleasant,” he agrees.
Shane tilts forward and lets his forehead rest against Ilya’s thick chest, the contact grounding. He melts a bit more when Ilya brings his arms up around Shane to press him in tighter.
“I trust you,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“I just didn’t like feeling replaceable.”
Shane can feel Ilya’s arms flex subtly where they touch him.
“You are not replaceable,” he says into Shane’s hair. “There is no substitute. I don't want anything that isn't my boring husband.”
The jealousy doesn’t disappear instantly, but it softens into something manageable.
When they finally step apart, they don’t leave the gym. They finish their workout, but Ilya stays close enough that their shoulders brush between sets, and when someone glances a little too long in their direction, Shane finds that it doesn’t burn quite the same way anymore.
Because now he understands what that possessiveness feels like from the inside.
And it isn’t about insecurity.
It’s about wanting to be singular.